


Imagine finding Bucky after the events of ‘Winter Soldier,’ taking him home so you can take care of him

by forestofmyown



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Gen, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, M/M, Other, Reader-Insert, Roommates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-01
Updated: 2015-06-01
Packaged: 2018-04-02 08:10:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4052857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forestofmyown/pseuds/forestofmyown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Originally posted on tumblr:  http://forestofmyown.tumblr.com/post/91582890479/second-runner-up-for-oneshot-contest</p>
    </blockquote>





	Imagine finding Bucky after the events of ‘Winter Soldier,’ taking him home so you can take care of him

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on tumblr: http://forestofmyown.tumblr.com/post/91582890479/second-runner-up-for-oneshot-contest

You growl to yourself in the dark as you pass yet another street light. One hand clutches the steering wheel too hard while the other rubs back and forth across your the back of your head in frustration. The yellow light momentarily illuminates your vehicle as you pass it before dowsing you in darkness again. The road stretches out in front of you, black and empty and spotted with more dots of yellow reflecting in the gloss on the ground from the last rain.

The radio is playing a song that is far too loud and far too peppy. You smack it. This, of course, does nothing. You’re growl turns into a load grunt, and you jerk you hand over to flip on your turning light before you pull off to the side of the road.

You stop there, in the dark, and rub your eyes. A long sigh, a deep breath, and you manage enough self control to turn off the radio without breaking anything. Then you put your truck in reverse, glare over your shoulder, and make a three point turn back onto the road.

Retracing your earlier route, you drive slowly, trying to calm your heart for what you are about to do. I have no sense, you repeat to yourself, furious. No sense. Not the sense I was born with, not a lick. I’m gonna get murdered. And it’ll serve me right, too, little goody-two-shoes that I am—

The headlights of your truck illuminate a shadow hunkered over on the other side of the road. Swallowing all your second guessings, you whip into the turning lane, pull across into a random road, and then back right out again. A few seconds later, you roll to a stop along the edge of the street, headlights shining on what is undeniably a person. You stare at them through your windshield, feeling the rumble of your engine beneath you, feeling rather than actually voicing your internal debate again.

After a minute the figure lifts their head and a hand to shield themself from the light, peering at your through the glare. You pop open your front door and hop out, throwing your shoulders back and fingering the knife in your pocket for security.

You approach. Your voice is rather gruff when you ask, “You okay?”

The figure, rather bulky and decked out in a thick sweater and ripped up jeans, just blinked up at you. He even had on gloves. The entire outfit was decidedly too warm for this weather, middle of the night or not. A hood was pulled up over his head, loose scraggles of dark hair poking out limply around his face, which was buried in shadow.

“Well?” You snap, shifting on your feet and crossing your arms uncomfortably. It’s dark and late and your alone in a strange neighborhood with a silent stranger; you feel like jumping out of your skin. It’s like the first few minutes of a horror movie. Someone’s probably watching you on their tv, screaming at the screen for you to get back in the truck and drive off before you get yourself killed.

But this isn’t a horror movie, you tell yourself. This is real life and you are a kind person, worried about a stranger that might need help. It’s not like you can’t defend yourself. You aren’t uncautious. You can do this. Nothing bad is going to happen.

You keep repeating that as you wait.

“I …” The figure slowly lets his hand down. His voice cracks a bit as he continues, something between a laugh and a sob. “I don’t know.”

It’s heartbreaking. Such a simple sentence, but …

You uncross your arms. “You’re not some kind of serial killer or mass murderer, right?”

This is said jokingly, to lighten the mood and relieve your tense muscles. Instead, the words hang in the darkness, unanswered. A chill runs through you.

“I … ” He begins again, finally, staring down at the pavement. “No. I’m not. I’m not.”

He sounds more like he’s trying to convince himself. It’s unnerving, but seriously, you wonder if he’s crying under that hood. He sounds so broken.

"You need me to call someone for you?” The police, you wonder. A hospital?

“There’s no one.”

“You got a place?”

“No. Not for a long time.”

Just your luck. “If I give you a lift, are you going to kill me?”

He snorts. “No. … a lift where?”

You cringe, half tempted to turn on your heel and just drive away. Just drive away.

Instead, you hear yourself reluctantly say, “My place.”

He looks up, staring into your face. “Why?”

“Do I need a reason to help someone?” You shrug. “I’d hope someone would help me if I needed it. Do you need it?”

He doesn’t answer for a while. He just stares, and you feel frozen to the spot, hand in your pocket again, thumb planted against the knife handle.

“Yes,” he chokes out. “Please.”

You nod. “Get in.”

Slowly, he stands. He doesn’t seem unsteady on his feet, which you take as a good sign, and back up to the driver’s side door. Once in, you lean across the seat and unlock the passenger’s side. He opens it and climbs in.

You don’t bother to turn the radio back on as you pull out into the road and drive away. Your knife is no longer readily accessible, but your both seatbelted in, so that’s a comfort. The drive isn’t that long, either. Twenty more minutes and you’re home, driving your car around the back of the thin two story building, ignoring the garage in front. That’s your shop, not for parking.

Downstairs is where your business runs out of, with the main office and storage areas. Because of this, security is pretty good—when your not bringing a stranger into the building with you, that is. You can see the headlines now: “Local Mechanic Found Dead in Home After Misplaced Act of Kindness.” The story of the hopeless world you live in practically writes itself. A tragedy.

You lead your “guest” upstairs with you, unlocking the apartment and throwing the keys on the kitchen counter as you enter, before even flipping on the lights. It’s a reflex. The place is pretty small, if you’re honest. But it’s home.

Walking past the counter straight into the living room reveals a sofa, coffee table, and the rather pricey tv that is your pride and joy. It’s the most expensive thing you own, even counting the computer set up downstairs in the office. Sadly, a lack of cable or satellite means it only gets used to watch the same cheap dvds over and over.

To the left is the door to your bedroom, which contains the only upstairs bathroom. It occurs to you that you’ll have to keep your room unlocked to supply access to it. A slightly uncomfortable thought.

“Alright,” you say, waving around the room. “The couch is all yours, the fridge is stocked, and the bathroom is through there. Make yourself at home.”

You turn to find him standing still just inside the doorway, eyes darting around, taking in the room and everything in it. It’s easier to see his face in the light. He’s unshaven, with sunken eyes, a strong chin, and thin lips. Frankly, he’s pretty good looking, but in definite need of a shower.

“You know what? I’ll take the couch. You hop in the shower and then hit the hay, alright? Unless your hungry.”

His eyes flit to you. They’re a deep, intense blue that isn’t helped any by the chilling stare he’s got going on. “I … am hungry, yes.”

It’s the middle of the night; you don’t want to cook. But all the same, you drop your bag by the bedroom door and start rummaging through the cabinets. There isn’t much. Living on the job like you do doesn’t leave much room for cooking, especially when fellow workers can come knocking during your lunchbreak to ask for help (which they always do). Normally, you manage to work takeout into the budget.

But your guest looks like a deer caught in headlights, panicked and stone still, ready to run at any moment. He’s pretty well built, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t been without food recently. You want to do what you can. In the end, that turns out to be oatmeal and toast (you figured that was healthier than a frozen pizza; you’ll save those for tomorrow if he stays that long).

You set the food on the coffee table before him and settle onto the couch beside him. He finally pushes his hood back as he picks up a piece of toast and nods to you before taking a bite.

“Thank you.” Munch.

You smile, satisfied. He’s pretty quiet while he eats. He hasn’t taken the gloves off.

While he’s busy, you dig in your dresser for a pair of baggy sweatpants and an overly large tee-shirt. When you join him again, he’s finished off most of the bowl. You set the clothes beside him, along with a towel.

“That’s all I got, but they should fit. The washing machine’s downstairs, so just leave your dirty stuff by the door and I’ll take them down in the morning.”

He scoops the last of the oatmeal into his mouth and dusts his gloves off over the bowl. Flecks of toast scatter at the bottom. Then he picks up the shirt and holds it out, eyes flickering over the design.

It’s Captain America’s shield. He can’t seem to look away.

“You’re in my bed, friend.” You finally interrupt him, smirking. He puts the shirt down, blinking rapidly.

“Sorry. Thank you.” He stands and makes for the bedroom door, but pauses, swallowing. “Really. Thank you.”

You mock salute him. “You’re welcome.”

He disappears into your room. Hoping you don’t get your throat slit in the night, you sprawl out over the couch, settling where you can see the door over the tops of your feet, and try to sleep.

~*~~*~~*~

You honestly expected, when you picked your guest up, that he would be gone within a day or two. It takes that long just to get a name out of him, let alone find out where he belongs.

He uncomfortably informs you over dinner the third night that his name is James. You still wonder if that’s his real name; sometimes he doesn’t answer to it, like he’s not used to being called that at all.

James is quiet, tidy, and withdrawn. He’s also strong, unpredictable, and polite. They’re weird qualities to have rolled up in one person.

Seeing him emerge from your bedroom that first morning had been a tad startling. His left arm is a prosthetic, completely metal. He refused to leave the apartment until his hoodie and gloves were washed so he could hide it again.

If he wants to cover his arm up, that’s his business. But you were determined to make it clear he didn’t have to if he didn’t want to.

It looked like an expensive piece, but you don’t ask about it. Just like you don’t bug him for a name. James talks when he was ready to talk, and you think that’s probably best.

Two months it takes before he’s comfortable walking around the apartment in a tank top, and it’s still two weeks after that before he’s okay coming downstairs to the shop like that for the other employees to see. By then they’re all used to your mysterious roommate.

Hanging out with the workers is good for him. Making him smile has become a sort of personal goal for you most days, and having the others around to add variety helps. James’ sense of humor is varied and could even be raunchy at times, though he’s uncomfortable laughing at first.

James is uncomfortable with everything at first.

You let him do whatever he needs to do. The guy obviously has some soul searching that needs to be done. You give him a place to come home to, though, admittedly, the couch wasn’t much, so you saved up and got a new one that folds out into a bed. But he looked ready to run at any moment those first few days, so you never once mentioned him leaving. After a while, you didn’t really want him to.

He has nightmares. Bad nightmares. A far as you can tell, James is a vet, come home from a war to poverty, amnesia, and PTSD. You’re no therapist, but a few hours pouring over google has you hoping you’re equipped to deal with whatever James throws your way.

He breaks things sometimes. On accident, when he’s mad, when he wakes from the nightmares. He’s always sorry, always apologizing more than he needs to, always cleaning up and working to do something to make it up to you. He got into a fight in the garage once and broke a guy’s arm. He didn’t come out of the apartment for a week after that.

The dog helped with that. The internet had suggested it, and you had run with the idea. You’d visited three shelters before coming home with a three legged chocolate lab, which James had quietly named Buck. They were inseparable.

James takes great care of Buck, helps out in the shop (though, with the metal arm, he isn’t allowed near anything with a live current), and tends to flirt with just about anyone that comes through the door (something that bothers you a bit more than it should, but you’re trying not to think about that). He still has his silent, broody days, but his quirky smile is a vast improvement over the jumpy deer you’d brought home. It warms your heart every time you see it.

So when one of your coworkers mentions that James looks just like the pictures of Bucky Barnes they have up in the museum, you laugh it off. And when another guy says that, seriously, the resemblance is uncanny, pull up a pic on your phone, you roll your eyes and tell him to get back to work. And when James lets slip he was once “Sergeant Barnes,” you try not to think about it. Or about the outdated references and vocabulary you’ve had to correct. Or how he always seems to zone out when Captain America is on the news.

James will talk about it when he wants to talk about it. Until then, he’s home. With you.

As selfish as that may be, for now, he’s yours.


End file.
